The Author's Apparition
by SoftPurple Sherlockian
Summary: An AU in which John is an author suffering from agoraphobia brought on by PTSD and turns to writing as a form of therapy and as a way to cope with civilian life. Sherlock Holmes is a character that John has created. What happens when the line between fiction and reality start to blur?
1. Chapter 1

Please note that I don't pretend to understand the things a person who has these disorders goes through. I tried my hardest to approach the subject in a delicate manner that would still convey well in the story. It's not my intention to offend anyone who suffers from PTSD, or agoraphobia.

I personally have panic attacks and can only write about my first hand knowledge and experiences with it. Everyone is different and it's not my intention to belittle the significance of such a disorder.

I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters there in, if I did, I wouldn't have a load of student loan debt.

I will try to announce triggers before each chapter, though you should know the entire work as a whole deals with PTSD and agoraphobia with panic attacks

* * *

Writing was supposed to help. John's therapist insisted that a creative outlet would aid him in coping with the civilian life he had been thrust back into. 'Write about what happen to you' she urged. The problem was, nothing ever happened to John Watson. He lived inside his own head now, and the only adventures he went on anymore happened in his mind.

Agoraphobia brought on by PTSD, that's what his therapist has said. The onset of the panic attacks triggered by going out in public now forced John to become a recluse. He perceived there to be danger everywhere and now only had the solitude of the four walls of his flat along with his thoughts to keep him company.

The internet was his only connection to the outside world, save for his weekly therapy sessions with Ella Thompson, John's doctor. She started coming to his flat after he had missed three appointments. Each time he tried to leave the building resulted in him bent over the toilet, nauseous and gagging. That was how Doctor Thompson found him one afternoon and ever since they had taken to having their sessions in the safety of John's home, where he felt more secure.

They say to write well, you should write what you know. The problem with that is who wants to read about death and destruction with no happy ending? That was all John knew now, and that is why his computer screen remained blank anytime he tried to recall anything from his days overseas. The blinking cursor taunting him, reminding him that he couldn't bring himself to type out those experiences.

Instead, John found himself spinning fantastic tales of fiction. Mythical creatures in search of treasure, daring sword fights on the deck of a ship, tales of self-discovery through the hero's journey. It was because of these stories John was able to live a life of solitude. He had sold the rights to several of his stories after Doctor Thompson convinced him to show them to a publicist,. He was now safe from the mundane drabbles of a normal nine to five job where he would be forced to interact with people.

To be honest, the stories he concocted had turned quite a bit of profit, and John was able to afford a nice flat in the heart of London, something he wasn't able to do on his army pension alone. Before the writing, he had seriously considered moving. Someplace quieter, somewhere away from it all, but in his heart, he still loved the city. When he was on tour in Afghanistan, it was the comforting thoughts of home that kept him going. It seemed to be a cruel twist of fate that once he was back he couldn't make it a step beyond his front door.

John walked into the kitchen and turned the kettle on. Writers often had a routine they did to clear their head, John's included sitting down with a nice cuppa before starting a new story. Some days he had a plan; an outline of character development, a list of things he wanted to take place within the story, personality traits of the people he was bringing to life on his screen. Other days, like today, he had no clue what he wanted to write about. He just knew that he had an itch to go on a vicarious adventure and would sit down and lose himself for a few hours as the words came pouring out of him, spilling from his fingertips and onto the screen of the computer.

Pouring the boiling water into his favourite mug, John dropped a tea bag inside to start steeping. Tea in hand, he made his way to the sitting room where he collected his laptop and sank down into his chair. "Shite," he murmured to himself, staring at the battery icon in the lower right hand corner of the screen. It was red and flashing angrily at him and he got up and limped to the bedroom to retrieve the power cord.

Content that the machine wasn't going to give out at any moment, John opened a new blank document and stared at the empty page before him. It was so full of possibilities, it had the potential to be anything that John wanted it to and that thought alone drew a small smile from the man's lips. He brought his fingers to the keys and started to write.

_John was standing at Bart's, he recognised the lab room, even if it had been revamped and looked slightly more modern than it was in his days there. He glanced around the room, taking everything in. He imagined a man hunched over one of the microscopes, researching something that was clearly very important to him, though John didn't want to have to take the time to come up with what it was exactly. He would simply call it an experiment for now. With an idea starting to form in his mind, a man started to materialize on the stool. He was blurred at first, as if John's imagination couldn't quite decide how it wanted the protagonist to look just yet. Slowly, the lines became sharper and the details more clear as the man started to take shape in front of him._

_He was tall; John could tell by the way he was leaning forward to look into the microscope. He had a mess of ebony curls that were toppled across his forehead making it difficult to clearly see his features. However, John already knew what he would find before the stranger looked up. He could see it as clear as day now, and when the stranger lifted his head to lock eyes with John, the author was pleasantly surprised that he had come up with a man who looked so, well, beautiful. He blamed his libido for this one, his recent lack of sex was the only reasoning he had for the cupid's bow lips, sharp cheekbones, and blue/green eyes looking back into his own._

_"Hello, John."_

_"You know my name?"_

_"Obviously."_

_"How?"_

_"You created me, John. I know everything about you. You subconsciously made me that way. At least…" the man paused, looking John over, "I **think** so anyway. It's all a bit muddled up here." He tapped a long finger against his temple. "I can look at you and observe things that most people take for granted, however, I can't quite make everything out. I'll figure it out though." At that, the man went back to peering into the microscope and scribbling something down on the pad of paper that had formed in front of him._

_John laughed at that._

_"Something funny?"_

_"Yeah, only I would create a proper genius without even realising it!" John chuckled and looked over at the man who was now frowning at him, clearly not seeing the joke. "One with no sense of humour no less. You should be loads of fun to work with."_

_"Work with?"_

_"Well, yeah…"_

_"Oh I see. It's your intention to 'work with me' in the sense that you'll be placing me in ridiculous scenarios, giving me some redeemable quality, which by the way if I have one you have yet to think of it, and generally have me get into situations that will require my newly acquired skills of deduction to get out of. Am I right?"_

_Again, John smiled "sounds about right, yeah." He paused "hang on, skills of deduction?" he asked the stranger, and the second the question was out of his mouth, the man suddenly became very eager to show off, this character was practically creating himself._

_"Yes, John, obviously. Deduction, do try to keep up. I clearly see everything and make logical deductions based on the information I gather. For example, I know you're ex-military, doctor most likely given the fact that we're currently standing in Bart's. I know you have a psychosomatic limp from the way you keep absentmindedly gripping your hand as if it were used to holding something, probably a cane. You have a debilitating case of agoraphobia most likely brought on by post-traumatic stress disorder, and I also know that this entire conversation is happening inside your head."_

_"You know this isn't real?"_

_The stranger gave the oddest little half smirk before speaking again. "I didn't say that, John. I said it was happening inside your head."_

_John smiled widely, "That was brilliant."_

_The stranger wasn't sure why, but he was surprised by that. "You think so?"_

_"Absolutely, quite extraordinary." John watched as the taller man stood up and made his way toward the door, looking very pleased with himself._

_"Shall we be off?"_

_"Off? Wait, hang on a second." At that, the stranger stopped in his tracks._

_"Problem?"_

_"I don't know where to find you, I don't even know your name."_

_Yes, well" the man started, "I was hoping you could tell me that."_

_John paused for a second, momentarily forgetting he had yet to give this character a name. He took a moment to think it over. A man like this needed something elegant, something distinctive, and the second he had made a decision, the stranger seemed to know._

_"Ah." the taller man said. "That's lovely." He smiled down at John. "The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 2-2-1 B Baker Street."_

John saved the document, feeling pleased with the amount of progress he had made today.

Sipping what was left of the tea that had long since gone cold, he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. 'Sherlock Holmes,' John thought. 'I can't wait to see what kind of adventures you take me on.'


	2. Chapter 2

Possible triggers: Mentions of a crime scene, not very detailed, and a panic attack

Please note that I don't pretend to understand the things a person who has these disorders goes through. I tried my hardest to approach the subject in a delicate manner that would still convey well in the story. It's not my intention to offend anyone who suffers from PTSD, or agoraphobia.  
I personally have panic attacks and can only write about my first hand knowledge and experiences with it. Everyone is different and it's not my intention to belittle the significance of such a disorder.

Nothing has changed in the last day. Alas, I still do not own Sherlock or and of the characters, and I still have a crap ton of student loan debt.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes is a character that won't leave John alone. His stories were a constant thought in the back of John's mind. He was the kind of character that would bother you until you got their journey down, only then would they stop nagging you.

This was how John found himself up at the crack of dawn in front of his laptop, coffee in one hand and the newspaper in the other. He had tried to get some sleep the night before, but the detective (John decided that's what he was best suited for) wouldn't give him a moment's peace until the author paid him another visit. John dragged the cursor over to the saved file and double clicked the small icon, bringing the tale up on the screen and allowing himself to get swept away into this world.

Sherlock had been taking shape in his head for the rest of the previous day, and by the time John was ready to venture back to 2-2-1-B, the character had layers that John had yet to realise he had even given him.

He took a deep breath, gave his fingers a little wiggle and dove back into the world of Sherlock Holmes.

_"Ah, John. You're here."_

_The author took a moment to look around and figure out where 'here' was exactly. They were in a flat, that much was obvious. John was pleasantly surprised to find it closely resembled his own, though if he thought about it, it did make sense. However, the state of said flat was in utter chaos._

_There were stacks of paper and piles of newspapers everywhere. Around the corner the kitchen was in a worse state. Unknown substances boiled on the stove, multi-coloured liquids sat in unlabeled vials throughout the room, and on the counter there was a jar of, what appeared to be, thumbs._

_"I quite like it here, John. It's well suited to my needs," the detective said._

_"I'll assume that's something akin to a 'thank you' coming from you," John answered in return._

_Sherlock only murmured some unintelligible moan and stayed in his current position of lying across the sofa._

_"Sherlock," John started. "You can't live like this."_

_The man on the sofa turned his head to stare at John and a look of disgust crossed his beautiful face. "Live?" He quirked up an eyebrow in John's direction._

_"You know what I mean. All of this," he gestured to the clutter shrewd about the flat._

_"These are my experiments, John."_

_The author could tell Sherlock was already bored with this conversation by the tone of his voice. "Still," John said. "You need someone to -"_

_"No!" The detective shouted, cutting John off. "Don't even think about it."_

_But it was too late, the idea had been put into motion and John just grinned up at Sherlock who was now standing in front of him after jumping up in his huff._

_The front door opened and the two men turned their heads to see who this new edition had manifested itself as._

_An older woman with a petite frame and sweet face had entered the room. "Sherlock," she scolded in a playful tone, "the mess you've made."_

_"Are you happy now?" Sherlock hissed down at John._

_"Sherlock," John stated calmly. "You like her. I don't mean for her to interfere all of the time. Just pop in now and again to check on you, that's all. Honestly most of her time will be spent downstairs." It was said so matter-of-factly that it instantly became so._

_"Of course I **like** her," he spat out. "No thanks to you!" The detective was annoyed and John couldn't bring himself to care. Sherlock needed her, no matter how much he argued it, he knew it too._

_"I was just fine on my own!" The ebony haired man had taken to sulking and was now sitting on the sofa with his knees pulled to his chest eying Mrs. Hudson, who was now in the kitchen, like a hawk._

_"Stop pouting."_

_"No."_

_John sighed, wondering how someone so argumentative had come from his head. Sure, he had come up with some complex characters before, difficult even, but he always found a way to bring the story around full circle and they always relented in the end._

_"John," the detective whined, "I'm bored."_

_"You could help Mrs. Hudson clean up the flat." John joked, knowing full well that was never going to happen._

_"Dull. Besides, there's nothing wrong with it." He shot John and accusing glare, still put out by the land lady in his kitchen. "I need a case!"_

_"A case?"_

_"Yes, aren't you listening? A case!" He shouted._

_"And… you don't have one?"_

_"John, if you're going to ask stupid questions feel free to leave and return when you have something for me to do."_

_"Hey! Hang on! How's this my fault?" John asked, utterly bewildered._

_Sherlock looked over at him with an I-can't-believe-you're-this-stupid look across his face._

_"Have you come up with a scenario for me to solve, John? Have you given any thought as to what I'm supposed to do here in the flat all day?" Sherlock was angry now and becoming erratic._

_"A case? Alright hang on and let me think for a moment."_

_"Quite quickly if you please."_

_John looked over at the detective who was waiting impatiently for something to solve. Character building was something that never came quickly, and John racked his brain to form people and relationships for Sherlock's world. _

_He would need connections on the police force: done. It wasn't very difficult; these lesser characters didn't need the full history and background that Sherlock had. They simply needed to fill their role in the story._

_With each character John thought of, he watched Sherlock's face as he processed the information. It was as if everything was being downloaded into his brain as John came up with it._

_Sherlock stared to rattle off names as John tried to tie all the loose ends together. "Lestrade: Detective Inspector, friendly, wife is cheating on him. Donovan: Dislikes me, feels threatened by my presence. Anderson: Forensics, prat, married, having an affair with Donovan." Sherlock paused, "you have a tendency to incorporate infidelity," he said pointedly, looking at John. His stare switched from one of general curiosity to the more scrutinizing one of I'm-trying-to-figure-you-out._

_John suddenly felt self-conscience under Sherlock's heated gaze and shifted around. "Alright, well… now that that's done. A case, yeah?" The author knew it was silly to think Sherlock could see anything about him that he didn't allow, but he was still anxious to change the subject._

_Deciding he had a good enough distraction for him, Sherlock's phone beeped with a new text message. The detective gave John a genuine smile and reached for his mobile. "Double homicide! Yes!" He jumped up. "Thank you, John! Ugh, it's Christmas!" and was practically out of the door before John could rose from the chair he was sitting in._

_"You're far too happy about this, you know that right?"_

_"Your fault," Sherlock shouted back as he made his way down the staircase._

_John bounded after him; he didn't have his limp here and was able to catch up with the detective relatively quickly. When he reached him, Sherlock was hailing a taxi for them which made John chuckle._

_"Problem?" Sherlock asked, throwing the door of the cab open and stepping inside._

_"No, it's just…"_

_"Don't be dull, John. Spit it out already."_

_"This is your world, Sherlock. It's more yours than it is mine honestly. I mean, I made it for **you**." John was aware that the detective's eyes were burning into him and he rushed to continue. "I mean I could have just pictured us at the crime scene and voilà." He snapped his fingers together for emphasis. "We could have skipped all the messy bits."_

_Sherlock continued to stare at him, trying to decide how to respond. "John?" _

_The author look up and held Sherlock's eyes with his own, knowing that he wouldn't continue unless he had John's complete attention.  
"Life is the messy bits."_

_John didn't have anything to say to that, so he sat back and appreciated the silence. Sherlock didn't fill the air with idle chit-chat and John was thankful he had a character who didn't seem offended by the lack of conversation._

_When the two arrived at the scene, Lestrade and the others were waiting for Sherlock's arrival._

_"Hello, Freak." Sally Donovan greeted. "They're in there."_

_John followed Sherlock into a bedroom where a man and a woman were lying in bed. Blood soaked the sheets and the bullet holes in both of their foreheads left a river of crimson running down their faces, which were frozen in fear._

_John shouldn't have been surprised, after all, it was a scene of his own design, but the realness of it was getting to him and he could feel the bile rising in the back of his throat._

He pushed his laptop away, unable to make out the words across the screen as the dizziness overtook him. He focused on his breathing; inhale, 1, 2, 3 exhale, 1, 2, 3. Inhale, 1, 2, 3 exhale, 1, 2, 3.

_"Easy, John."_

_Sherlock was standing in front of him, his hands grasping John firmly by the shoulders, his touch comforting the author and keeping him grounded._

_"That's it, John. Breathe, breathe. You're fine. It's all in your head."_

_The irony of a fictional character telling him it was all in his head was not lost on John. He'd have to appreciate the humour of the situation later though. Right now all of his concentration was being put into not vomiting._

_"Remember your exercises, John."_

_The author looked up and nodded at Sherlock, surprised that the detective had torn himself away from the corpses to help John get through this episode._

When his vision started to focus again he took a step back and looked up at Sherlock, who was eying him with a look of concern.

_"I think it's best if you wait outside, John."_

_He numbly nodded his head and made his way out of the building, still in a bit of a daze. The fresh air seemed to help; the irony of this was not lost on him either._

_His thoughts were interrupted by Sergeant Donovan moving over to where John stood leaning against the brick building to steady himself._

_"Oi, did the freak scare you off already?"_

_"I assume you mean **Sherlock**." It wasn't a question and the emphasis John had put on the detective's name held an unmistakable warning._

_The problem with creating these lesser characters was that they lacked depth. They served their purpose and nothing more, but John wondered how someone so hateful had come from him. It was a question that he already knew the answer to. The characters he came up with were all parts of him. He had anger and he had hatred, so it shouldn't come as a shock to him when these traits appeared in the people of this world. He did hate that this particular set of individuals had chosen Sherlock to spew their venom at though._

_"You know, Sally, I'd watch that tongue of yours. It'll get you into trouble one of these days. I might just decide you're better off without it."_

_The threat was clear and Sergeant Donovan just sneered back at him and walked away, leaving John, once again, alone._

_He didn't have to wait long before Sherlock came bounding out of the building, smiling like a happy little boy._

_"Solved it then?" John asked, knowing full well that he had._

_"Of course," the detective replied, no trace of humility in his voice. "It was the wife's girlfriend. She witnessed her lover and her lover's husband being intimate and shot them both in a jealous rage. Obviously. All you had to do was look at the victim's earrings to figure it out, but you knew that already." He stopped and looked at John, really looked at him and recalled that of course John knew._

_The author was still slumped against the wall and Sherlock moved closer. It was a gesture that wasn't entirely unwelcome, but surprising just the same.  
"Come on." Sherlock grabbed John's elbow. "Let's go back to the flat."_

_"Are you going to get a cab?"_

_"Not this time."_

_John nodded his understanding and they were instantly back at Baker Street. He felt more comfortable already._

_"John," Sherlock scowled, "why were we just at the scene of a double homicide?"_

_"Because you needed a case?"_

_"Don't state the obvious. Why were we specifically at a murder that you knew, or at least had a strong suspicion, would trigger an episode for you?" The question wasn't condescending, it was one of genuine curiosity._

_"I, er, I don't know."_

_"Yes you do. Think. What made you pick that particular crime? You could have given me a nice kidnapping or a less gruesome death and you would have been fine. Instead we went to a gory murder that resulted in your having to leave me. I'd like to know why."_

_John let out a long sigh. "It just popped in my head, alright? I read about it in the paper this morning and it just came to mind when trying to come up with something. I thought you'd be happy."_

_"Happy that you had a mild panic attack? I don't think so, John." Sherlock's head snapped toward the smaller man who had made himself comfortable in one of the chairs in the sitting room and the detective got down on his knees in front of John, a wild look of panic in his eyes. "John? You said you read about this in the paper this morning?"_

_"Yeah," John shook his head. "Front page story."_

_Sherlock grabbed John's arms and his brow furrowed. "You mustn't do that, John! You mustn't!"_

_"Hey!" The author rose from his seat and looked up at Sherlock who had taken his cue to stand. "It's all fine, alright? It's fine, no harm done."_

_"No harm do-"_

_"I'm fine, Sherlock. Don't worry about me."_

_"I wasn't worried!" the detective snapped back at him, to which John only smiled._

_"No, of course you weren't. So…" John said, trying to change the subject to something less heated, "mind explaining why you wanted to skip the 'messy bits' this time around?" Asking why they hadn't taken a cab back to the flat._

_"You were white as a sheet, John. I needed to get you somewhere familiar so you'd feel comfortable."_

_John had not been expecting that answer and looked down at his feet, slightly embarrassed. "Right, um, thanks for that."_

_The incident over the case seemed to have been forgotten, but John missed the worried glances that Sherlock kept shooting his way._

_"Well then," John cleared his throat. "I'll be off."_

_Sherlock dismissed him with a wave of his hand, already engrossed in whatever was under the microscope he was looking at and John just chuckled._

John saved the file and shut his laptop. Grabbing his cane for support, he stood up.

The detective was one of the most fascinating characters he had come up with, and he had a feeling he would be visiting again very soon.

He went to bed that night coming up with different problems for Sherlock to solve, completely unaware of the fact that the entire day had come and gone.


	3. Chapter 3

Possible triggers: Mentions of a war scene, and a panic attack.

Please note that I don't pretend to understand the things a person who has these disorders goes through. I tried my hardest to approach the subject in a delicate manner that would still convey well in the story. It's not my intention to offend anyone who suffers from PTSD, or agoraphobia.  
I personally have panic attacks and can only write about my first hand knowledge and experiences with it. Everyone is different and it's not my intention to belittle the significance of such a disorder.

Nothing has changed since I last posted. Alas, I still do not own Sherlock or any of the characters, and I still owe the government for paying for school.

* * *

_His eyes burned, clouds of thick dust and smoke were wafting through all of the ruble and making them tear up. The noise filling the air was deafening, the screaming of sirens in the distance, the roar of a tank, explosions going off all around. In front of him lay the broken body of a soldier, his uniform soaked in blood. Even after death had taken the young man, John could see that his knuckles were white, still gripping his rifle desperately, as if it were his only salvation, his face frozen in a grotesque expression._

_There had been an ambush in the middle of the night and John and his comrades had nearly made it to their extraction point when he felt the searing pain tear through his shoulder. The injury ripped through him and knocked him to the ground. The smell of blood crept up his nostrils as he lay face down in the sand. Consciousness was slipping away and he was vaguely aware of his brothers supporting his weight, dragging him towards the chopper that had touched down._

It was the sounds of his own screams that finally woke him from the nightmare. The sheets were drenched in sweat and John kicked them off with his good leg, not able to stand the way the damp fabric clung to his body. He reached for the glass of water he kept on the bedside table, but was unable to take a swallow, despite his mouth being dry, his breathing was uneven and his chest felt as if he was sucking through a straw.

He knew he should get up and go to the bathroom. The contents of his stomach were threatening to make an appearance, but he couldn't make himself get out of bed. Instead, he threw his head back against the board and willed his stubborn body to stop shaking. John was unaware how long he had been laying there, it could have been minutes or it could have been hours, but when his breathing finally took on a seemingly normal pattern and the spots behind his eyes faded away, the sun started coming up.

When he could finally stand, he limped to the shower, desperate to wash off the layer of sweat that lingered and had dried on his body.

Under the spray of the water he reminded himself that this was real. Right here, right now, the water running over his body was his reality. He wasn't in Afghanistan anymore, there weren't going to be any air raids in the middle of the night. Still, the knowledge of this did very little to comfort him and he still went to sleep each evening with his gun under the pillow for easy reach.

Stepping out of the loo, John limped into the sitting room, skipping breakfast in an attempt to keep the nausea at bay. He didn't have anything in mind when he picked up his laptop this time; he just knew that he needed a distraction. He needed to escape this solitude and retreat to the world he had constructed with so much care.

He had been adding more and more to Sherlock's life with each passing day, never once missing an opportunity to share in an adventure with the detective, though none of the cases had been as intense as the first. Sherlock didn't seem to mind and was equally happy with a good kidnapping or cyber-crime. For him, it was all about the mental stimulation that came along with a case, and not necessarily the extent of the gruesome details.

The author propped his cane against the chair where he could easily get to it when he needed to stand, and made himself comfortable before opening his computer.

_"John," the detective excitedly exclaimed as soon as he felt the author's presence. "You're not going to believe what I've discovered!" Without looking up from his microscope to see if John was even listening, he rushed on. "While examining the mitochondrial DNA of a common aloe plant, I've found that when used as a treatment, the restoration of GSH occurs and it could very well play an important role in the reversal of CP-induced apoptosis and free radical medicated LPO in the urinary bladder! Isn't that wonderful?"_

_"Mmm," John murmured, "very."_

_"Don't you understand what this means, John?" The detective went on, unaware of the disinterested tone the author's voice had. "Due to its widespread availability and relative lack of toxicity, the aloe plant extract in this study could be considered a potential strong candidate for future applications as an adjutant to cancer chemotherapies!"_

When Sherlock didn't receive any kind of response from John, he looked up and studied the man standing in the doorway.

_Despite having been under it several times already, John still wasn't used to the scrutinizing gaze that Sherlock gave him. The author watched as the ebony haired man processed the information, abandoned his experiment, and came to tower in front of John in three long strides._

_He shifted under the heated stare of the detective._

_"You had another attack." It wasn't a question._

_John numbly nodded his head and his legs became weak, not wanting to support the weight of his body any longer as he recalled the dream that woke him._

Sherlock studied him for a moment longer before asking, "trigger?"

_"A nightmare. It's fine, I'm fine."_

_"You most certainly are not fine. You're still trembling."_

_The shorter man hadn't been aware that he was, but once Sherlock pointed it out, he realised that he was, indeed, shaking, quite violently too._

_The detective continued to stand in front of John, trying to decide the best course of action. Tentatively, he brought his arms up and wrapped them around his friend, carefully at first, sussing out the situation and trying to figure out if this was acceptable or not._

_John answered the question for him when he lowered his defences and leaned into the embrace. The author knew this was a foreign concept for Sherlock and simply stood there, allowing the detective to take the lead._

_After John was sure Sherlock wasn't going to retreat, he clung to the man's slender waist. The two stood there for a long time, Sherlock resting his chin on John's head, and John, John burying his face into the other man's chest. Sherlock had a smell that was entirely his own and John found it comforting. It was a combination of Alterna Ten, coffee, tobacco, iodine, and something that was purely Sherlock._

_He inhaled deeply and took a small step back. He looked up at Sherlock and gave him a weak smile, hoping like hell the man hadn't been able to tell just how much John had enjoyed that._

_"Better?"_

_And not surprisingly, he was. "Yeah, thanks."_

_The detective's lip twitched and he swept past the shorter man and went into the sitting room._

_"So," Sherlock turned back toward John and asked, "What's on today?"_

_"Oh," John could feel his cheeks growing slightly pink. "I, um, I don't know." He saw Sherlock frowning and tried to explain. "I wasn't exactly thinking clearly. I just didn't… I mean…"_

_"You didn't want to be alone," the detective finished for him, and John nodded, realising how absurd the notion was._

_He was expecting a tantrum out of Sherlock, or at the very least, a minor sulk, but the detective surprised him by smiling. "Well then," he started. "What are we going to do today?"_

_"Actually," John replied, returning the smile in kind, "there is someplace I want to take you. Someplace I think you'd enjoy."_

_Sherlock raised an eyebrow in a questioning glance, "oh?"_

_Excitedly, John rushed on. "Yeah, I got the newsletter this week and I instantly thought of you."_

_That prompted a genuine smile from the detective. He walked toward the door and John watched as he wrapped a scarf around his elegant neck and impatiently held the door open for the author to follow._

_When the two were standing on the kerb, John stopped Sherlock from hailing a cab._

_"Nope," he said. "You don't get to know where we're going. It's a surprise."_

_"A surprise?" John, that's juvenile. I mean honestly –"_

_Sherlock's protests died on his lips as the street around them seemed to melt away, dissolving into nothingness. Slowly the scene around them started to reshape itself and the pair found themselves standing in front of the Natural History Museum._

_It had been years since John had visited the building, but did his best to construct it as accurately from his memory as he could. He had signed up for their mailing list something like ten years ago, and though he hadn't been back since, he never bothered to unsubscribe. _

_"John!" Sherlock called, and the author quickened his pace to catch up with the taller man who was now standing in front of a sign advertising the museum's latest exhibit. 'Beyond The Honey Bee' the sign read, and when John saw the smile on Sherlock's face, he knew he had done well. It was exciting for him to see Sherlock so happy, dragging John to the entrance like an impatient child whose excitement couldn't be contained._

_The duo weaved in and out of people's way in an attempt to get to the bees: families out enjoying the day, tourists taking pictures, children on a school field trip, and finally made it to the display signaling their destination. Sherlock walked straight through the double doors, completely ignoring the employee who was dutifully standing by collecting money and handing out tickets._

_"Sir!" She called after Sherlock. "You have to…"_

_"Ah, sorry," John apologised. "He's with me." He produced a tanner from his pocket and collected the tickets._

_The author entered the exhibit and was quite proud of himself. The room was identical to the pictures included in the newsletter he's been e-mailed, the blank spots, his brain seemed to fill in. John moved over to the corner of the room and watched as Sherlock located the observation hive._

_John was content to just stand there and take in the sight of Sherlock lost in his own little world. The detective stayed there, unmoving, for the better part of two hours. When a smile formed on Sherlock's face, John found himself moving closer to share in the other man's apparent happiness._

_Nothing needed to be said. When John got close enough, Sherlock stepped to the side to make room for him. The two stood there, in comfortable silence, for a long time watching the insects make their way through the hive._

_Sherlock turned just a fraction in John's direction. "There are over twenty thousand known species of bees."_

_The shorter man "mmm'd" in response. He wasn't particularly interested, but the fascination in Sherlock's voice was contagious and John found himself smiling._

_He began to shift his weight around after standing for so long. Logically, he knew he was sitting alone in his flat, but the mind is an interesting thing and John's legs ached from being on them all day._

_"Sherlock?" He turned to look up at the ebony haired man towering over him. "We should go, we've been here for hours."_

_Sherlock opened his mouth to object and John cut him off._

_"We'll come back," he looked into the wide eyes of the detective and promised._

_Sherlock nodded his head and smiled, knowing that John was a man of his word. With that smile John felt something stirring in his heart. He had done that, he had made Sherlock Holmes happy. It was a feeling that he'd been unacquainted with for quite some time. Everywhere he went, death and destruction followed. It was an unexpected change of pace to bring joy to someone and John found himself wanting to do it again._

_The ride back to Baker Street was a peaceful one. John still didn't understand why Sherlock insisted on taking taxis to get from point A to point B, but had given up trying to rationalise with the man. Sherlock enjoyed seeing the city, and even though it was time consuming, John had to admit that he missed it, and if this was the closest he could get he'd take it._

_Inside the flat, Sherlock was turning on his laptop, already excited at the prospect of researching the twenty thousand bee species._

_It was nice here, a comforting sort of feeling that John wasn't quite ready to say goodbye to just yet. So instead of leaving,_ he went into the kitchen to make some toast. The pair hadn't eaten all day and John was feeling peckish.

He slathered a dollop of jam on each piece, hoping that Sherlock would nibble on it without making too much of a fuss. He walked back into the sitting room _and put the plate on Sherlock's desk where he could easily reach it._

_"Should I make you some tea before I go?"_

_"No, I'm fine." Came Sherlock's answer without even looking up from his computer._

_John clenched his jaw, "right then okay. I'll just be off then." He turned away from Sherlock and was about to leave when he suddenly felt a hand on his own stopping him. He spun back around and met the detective's eyes._

_Instead of letting go of his hand, John watched as Sherlock lowered his gaze to the pair's fingers that were now intertwined. The author could see him studying, calculating the smaller fingers resting in his own. John didn't pull away, his body was starved for human contact and he welcomed the heat of another body against his, even if it was only his hand._

_When Sherlock was content that he had every detail committed to memory he raised his eyes back up to meet John's, who was still watching him with a look of amazement on his face._

_The two stared at each other, their fingers still laced and it was Sherlock who finally broke the spell._

_"Thank you for today," he said, and dropped the smaller hand._

_John let it fall to his side and nodded. He gave Sherlock a small smile and like that, _he was back in his own sitting room.

The sun had long since gone down and John knew he should move from the chair before he fell asleep. His shoulder wouldn't be thanking his for that come morning if he did. Still, he couldn't bring himself to get up. Instead, he leaned his head back and tried to ignore the prickling in his palm. The contrast of the cool air against his warm hand was unwelcome.

John closed his eyes and attempted to will away the emptiness he felt outside of Sherlock's presence. He had a nagging feeling in the pit of his stomach that something was missing, and it was something that he wouldn't find outside the four walls of his flat.

He rose and limped into the kitchen, carrying two plates to the sink.


	4. Chapter 4

I was asked why I italicize some parts of the the chapter or certain words in a conversation.  
The italics are supposed to differentiate between what's happening in the "real world" and what's happening in the "story world"  
As the lines between the two start to blur for John, I will reduce the amount of them I use.  
It's my hope that eventually we won't know what's "real" and what's not.  
-

Possible triggers: Mentions of a panic attack and very brief thoughts of suicide, though not detailed.

Please note that I don't pretend to understand the things a person who has these disorders goes through. I tried my hardest to approach the subject in a delicate manner that would still convey well in the story. It's not my intention to offend anyone who suffers from PTSD, or agoraphobia.  
I personally have panic attacks and can only write about my first hand knowledge and experiences with it. Everyone is different and it's not my intention to belittle the significance of such a disorder.

Nothing has changed in the last day. Alas, I still do not own Sherlock or any of the characters, and I still have a crap ton of student loan debt.

* * *

By the time Doctor Thompson was due to come around for their next appointment, John was in better spirits. He and Sherlock had spent nearly every day together since her last visit and the author was in a pleasant mood when he answered the door.

"Hello, John," Doctor Thompson greeted as she crossed the threshold and came inside.

"Doctor Thompson," he greeted in kind.

The two made their way to the sitting room and each went to their chairs.

"So, John, how have you been this week?"

John wasn't much of a talker, especially during these sessions, but he politely smiled and answered, "Fine, um, good."

Ella raised her eyebrow at that but said nothing.

"Have you had any attacks since our last visit?"

John felt his jaw clench and the familiar feeling of embarrassment crawled through his body. He lowered his gaze to the floor and studied the doctor's shoes.

"_She has a date tonight."_

John snapped his head up and glanced around the room.

Ella waited patiently as John cleared his throat and finally answered her.

"Three," he admitted.

She smiled kindly at him from across the room, "that's one less than last week."

The author scowled at her, it was still three more than he wanted.

Doctor Thompson sensed John's displeasure at this and tried to encourage him. "It's going to take time, John. You have to accept these small victories as they come."

Instead of answering her, he just leaned back into his chair and listened to the doctor ramble on (again) about breathing techniques and coping mechanisms.

"_Dull."_

His lips twitched when he heard the voice again. Of course Sherlock would find this boring, there was nothing for him to figure out, no puzzle for him to solve. His focus shifted back to the doctor when she started writing something down in her notebook.

"Tell me, John, have you started writing anything new?"

"No." The answer was short, sweet and an outright lie.

He wasn't really sure why he lied, he just knew he wasn't ready to share Sherlock just yet. He wanted to keep him for himself for just a little while longer.

Ella didn't seem pleased with his answer. "John," she started. "We've talked about this, remember? Writing will honestly help." She paused long enough to look him over. "Have you given anymore thought to putting down your experiences overseas?"

At the thought, his body went rigid. His chest instantly felt as if it was on fire and he was having trouble getting enough oxygen.

"John, breathe. John…John? Joh-"

He could no longer hear the doctor; her voice was disappearing, swallowed up by the deafening noise of bombs and gunfire.

In the midst of all the chaos and confusion, he finally heard it, the deep baritone plea for John to come back.

"_John," he called. "It's not real. Inhale."_

John did.

"_Hold it." _

He counted to three.

"_Exhale." _

He let out a shaky breath and repeated the process several times.

When he came to, Doctor Thompson was kneeling in front of him. Her hands were clasped on her knees and she looked up into John's eyes.

He could see all of the pity she felt towards him, and in that moment he hated himself. He hated that his once able body now betrayed him and he hated how powerless and weak he felt.

Dropping his head in utter defeat, he placed his palms on either side of his face and gave it a firm shake before returning her stare.

"Alright?" She finally asked.

He wanted to shout at her, no, he wasn't! He wasn't alright! He wanted to throw in the towel and call it quits on this whole shitty existence of his. He was just about to say so when it happened.

It was small at first, just a slight pressure on his shoulders. The feeling grew quickly after that, a comforting push against his skin, the warmth reminding him that he wasn't alone in this.

"I'm alright," he answered. "Thank you, he whispered.

It was Sherlock who he was thanking, but Doctor Thompson didn't need to know that.

After she made sure that he was indeed okay, the doctor got John a glass of water and brought their session to a close.

Alone again in his flat, John wasted no time in retrieving his laptop from under the chair and made quick work of locating the file he wanted to open.

_Inside 221B the author found Sherlock waiting for him. He was standing in the middle of the sitting room, elegantly dressed in a pair of simple black trousers and matching jacket over a tight white shirt._

"_Sherlock," John choked out, and walked over to him without another word._

_He buried his face in the taller man's chest and let the tears come._

_Sherlock, though still not entirely comfortable with the contact, allowed John to cling to him and weep._

_The author could feel Sherlock's long fingers threading through his hair, and the sweeping pressure of the detective's other hand on his back._

_It didn't take the world's only consulting detective to figure out that this is what his friend needed and John melted into the embrace._

_Only when the tears had turned into dry whimpers did John pull away. He was embarrassed now and looked down at Sherlock's bare feet._

"_Sorry," he mumbled._

"_John," Sherlock started, "don't make a big deal out of it. It's fine."_

_The author just nodded his head and went to sit on the sofa. He had expected Sherlock to follow, but the detective walked over to the window and peered down at the streets below._

_After a long silence, John finally cleared his throat._

"_You were in the flat today." It was a matter of fact statement that held no questioning tone._

_Without turning his head away from the glass, Sherlock calmly responded, "you needed me."_

_John was momentarily taken aback, but didn't argue. It was true, he realised, he had needed Sherlock. He hadn't known how much until the detective wasn't there. And when John finally felt his presence, he was at peace._

_How the hell had he become so important to John so quickly?_

_The two stayed that way, Sherlock looking out of the window, John sitting on the sofa contemplating the nature of his growing relationship with the detective._

_The nice thing about spending time with Sherlock was that he didn't feel the need to fill the room with pointless conversation. John didn't know if he had intentionally written him that way or not, but he was glad and didn't question it._

_Sherlock was just… Sherlock. The author had stopped consciously shaping the man and instead let him take on a life all his own._

_Deciding he had enough of staring aimlessly into the street, Sherlock produced the violin and bow that had been lying in the nearby chair. He raised the instrument to his chin and started playing a sad melody._

_The music filled the air, notes dancing all around them and John sat back in awe. He shouldn't have been surprised, Sherlock was a well-educated, sophisticated man, of course he could play the violin. _

_Rather than ponder the discovery, John closed his eyes and let the music wash over him. It had been a long day and he slowly felt himself succumbing to sleep. It was something that never came easy for him. Sleep was an elusive creature and whenever she came willingly, John didn't fight her._

_He didn't know how long he had been out, but it was the pressure of another body against his that jolted him awake, and when he looked down he was greeted with the sight of unruly black curls lying in his lap._

_Sherlock was curled up in the fetal position, no longer wearing his stylish suit. Instead, he sported a worn red dressing gown that draped over his body._

"_Go back to sleep, John," came the muffled voice._

"_How did you… oh never mind."_

_Sherlock decided to explain anyway. "Your breathing changed, it was a simple enough deduction. Go back to sleep."_

_John murmured some unintelligible form of agreement, because honestly, more sleep sounded lovely._

_He brought his hand up and let it rest on Sherlock's head. The detective only tensed for a fraction of a second before relaxing again._

_Content that the man in his lap wasn't going to flee, John started stroking the curls. They were softer than he imagined they would be and they moved through his fingers with ease. It was relaxing for him, and John found himself drifting again, absentmindedly running his hand through Sherlock's hair as sleep came once more to claim him._

The sound of his mobile ringing is what woke him up for good. Harry, his sister, was calling to check on him.

He and Harry didn't get on, but he welcomed the connection to the outside world. She didn't understand his condition, but after several months had stopped trying to force him into social situations.

The two of them weren't close enough for it to make any huge difference to her, and didn't object to coming to John's flat if she wanted to see him. Thankfully, those visits were few and far between.

Harry wasn't like Sherlock at all. She couldn't stand air in the conversation and would babble on about anything to fill the void of silence.

John was only listening with half an ear when she mentioned the museum.

"…can you imagine? Keeping live bees there? What happens if they get out? Anyway, Clara and I are going next week, and even though you'll say no, she told me to invite you."

"Ta, but I went already."

There was an uncharacteristically long pause from Harry's end of the phone before she finally spoke. "You went?"

John realised his mistake and chuckled. "Well, no, not actually went, but you know… the website has that virtual tour thing." He finished lamely.

If Harry thought it was odd, she didn't say anything, and John was thankful she didn't push the issue.

The conversation went on for about another ten minutes or so, Harry talking about who's sleeping with who and the new prime minister, and John "mmm-ing" in all the right places.

When he finally hung up, he heard footsteps and his body instinctively went on high alert.

"It's just me," came the deep voice behind him.

John smiled and turned to face Sherlock.

"Hi, I didn't think you'd be here."

"Where else am I going to go, John?" The question was soft, and went straight to John's heart.

He wanted nothing more than to close the distance between them. It was a revelation that took him by surprise. Sure, he had been attracted to Sherlock, but nothing had come of it up until that point.

Sherlock had been his beacon in the night, a stronghold when John threatened to lose his way. Now, John realised, he was so much more than that.

The decision was made for him when Sherlock came to stand directly in front of him in two long strides.

They stared at each other for a moment, neither wanting to be the first to take that final leap.

The tension between the two was nearly unbearable, and when John could no longer stand it, he raised his hand to the back of the detective's neck and pulled his head down so it was level with his own.

John lowered his gaze from Sherlock's eyes and focused on his lips for a second before meeting them with his own. Where Sherlock was all hard lines and angles, his mouth was soft and yielding under John's.

It was a slow buildup of experimentation. John knew Sherlock would approach this like he did everything else and didn't rush him as the detective traced John's lips with his tongue, analyzing every bit of data he could collect.

John gently grasped Sherlock's bottom lip between his teeth and gave it a small nip. When the taller man moaned his appreciation, John smiled into the kiss. Their tongues danced together in perfect harmony, as if matching a melody only the two of them could hear.

When they finally parted, John couldn't keep the smile at bay. If it had been anybody else, he would have been embarrassed at behaving like a schoolboy, but this was Sherlock, and the matching grin he was wearing put John at ease.

"I didn't know, I mean, I thought…" John started to explain.

Sherlock smiled even wider, "you didn't want it before, even on a subconscious level. Now you do and I'm amicable."

A laugh escaped John and Sherlock quickly followed.

"Well," the detective cleared his throat. "I'd better be getting back. Have to go put away London's criminals."

"Wait!" John all but shouted. "I…I don't want you to go."

Sherlock touched his forehead to John's and gave him a quick peck on the lips, as if to remind him he didn't imagine it. "I'll be back soon, John."

And then he was gone.


End file.
